Lace

The lace of my brain unlaced, the trace

of the stain unstained from the place

where we left it, feigned in the instant,

ingrained in the act, the spasm, the retract

-ed, redacted instant on the page, the cracked

screen where I write cracked words, from

the cracked brain you cracked with the crack

of our spasms, smoked with our pipes,

the chasms between rhymes that come

with coming, rhyming bodies, alive, long

revived by the manic instant of the

painter's brush, or the poet's pen, spent

again in the moment, the instant,

the stain that follows in shocks, in waves,

the crack that cracks outwards for days,

and in retreating leaves the thread

unfurled and undead, tying my head

to the words that we said, the spasms in bed,

fixed, and clicked into place, leaving only the

trace of your stains in my brain, coming

in poems, leaving prose for better things,

unread.